Things you may find hidden in my ear Poems from Gaza

Poet and librarian Mosab Abu Toha's first collection focuses on his life in Gaza. There is a duality to the poems, a contrast of beauty and violence. Images of dust, concrete, and gunfire tell a story of growing up under siege. These same elements will stay with the reader for days. The book is very visual both in language and in photographs that make the lines hit even harder. Some of the forms and line breaks feel loose, but they are made with passion and striking details. As in the poem "Olympic Hopscotch Leap," which describes a family playing when a missile falls onto a farm and includes this devastating scene, "Angels get hold of my infant niece, / We look around and find only / her milk bottle." Recommend Abu Toha to readers of Naomi Shihab Nye and Brian Turner's Here, Bullets (2005).

My Grandfather was a Terrorist My grandfather was a terrorist-- He tended to his field, watered the roses in the courtyard, smoked cigarettes with grandmother on the yellowish seashore lying like a prayer rug.  My grandfather was a terrorist-- He picked oranges and lemons, fished with brothers until noon, sang a comforting song en route to the farrier's with his piebald horse. My grandfather was a terrorist-- He made a cup of tea with milk, sat on his verdant land, as soft as silk, was incensed at the sun as it kept to blink.  My grandfather was a terrorist-- He departed his house for the coming guests, kept some water on the table, his best, lest the guests die of thirst after their conquest.  My grandfather was a terrorist-- He walked to the closest safe town, dark as the sullen sky, vacant as a deserted tent, darkling as a starless night.  My grandfather was a terrorist-- My grandfather was a man, a breadwinner for ten, whose luxury was to have a tent, with a blue UN flag set on the rusting pole, on the beach next to a cemetery.   Things You May Find Hidden In My Ear For Alicia M. Quesnel, MD I When you open my ear, touch it gently. My mother's voice lingers somewhere inside. Her voice is the echo that helps recover my equilibrium when I feel dizzy during my attentiveness.  You may encounter songs in Arabic, poems in English I recite to myself, or a song I chant to the chirping birds in our backyard.  When you stitch the cut, don't forget to put all these back in my ear. Put them back in order as you would do with books on your shelf. II The drone's buzzing sound, the roar of an F-16, the screams of bombs falling on houses, on fields, and on bodies, of rockets flying away-- rid my small ear canal of them all. Spray the perfume of your smiles on the incision. Inject the song of life into my veins to wake me up. Gently beat the drum so my mind may dance with yours, my doctor, day and night.     Palestinian Sonnet After Wanda Coleman Seized by echoes of suppressed words, I surrender my memory as I flee for the maze. I see signposts directing me to retreat whenever I try to explore. Every day I set foot in the maze; I close my ears but the shouts coming from suffocated whispers paralyze my shadow. Letters slide from my mouth into an icy river, break the reflection of vapor that emanates from melting clouds. The chattering teeth of cold raindrops out-sound my throbbing silence. It is not me who tries to walk in the maze. My withered umbilical cord tries to pull me to my sick mother's bedside before it is cut mid-nowhere.     A Rose Shoulders Up Don't ever be surprised to see a rose shoulder up among the ruins of the house: This is how we survived.       Excerpted from Things You May Find Hidden in My Ear: Poems from Gaza by Mosab Abu Toha All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.